


could you love me, more or less

by Anonymous



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Angst, Disaster Competent Highly Unprofessional Gays, Drunk Sex, Getting Together, Handjob Friends, Heteronormativity, Hooking up, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Pining, Really Poor Communication, Unwanted (?) Sexual Advances, alcohol use, bisexual awakenings, boys crying, do it you coward, handjobs, it's a disaster, just guys being bros, like really bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Pat's straight. Brian's straight. Right. They've agreed.Why can't they keep their hands off each other, then?
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Comments: 16
Kudos: 225
Collections: Anonymous, Polygolidays Gift Exchange 2019!





	could you love me, more or less

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holdingbreaths](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdingbreaths/gifts).



> Written for holdingbreaths for the Polygolidays Exchange, who asked for Brian pining for Pat, who says he's straight but keeps leading Brian on regardless. I had a hard time getting in Pat's head for that and figuring out why he would act like that, until I flipped the script a little. Now it's about Pat, who thinks he's straight, but keeps hooking up with Brian. I hope this slight deviation still works for you! Sometimes you have to follow the garden path where it leads??
> 
> With thanks to the Discord crew, who helped the idea coalesce when I was struggling, and let me shamelessly steal their good ideas.
> 
> It's in the tags, but fair warning, these guys are disasters. This is not a happy meet-cute where they kiss and realize they're in love and everything is perfect, as is my usual fare. There's a lot of lying to everyone, including themselves, and some internalized heteronormativity that they're both dealing with as part of the entire conceit of the story, so, read with a grain of salt. <3

_No one's covering the Game Developers Conference_ , Pat had mentioned at their all-hands meeting a few months ago. _If we really want to pivot to talking about video games as both art and industry, not just as grist for the culture mill, we should be there. We can't attend the conference, but we can talk about it, use it as a chance to set up interviews, tour some local studios, talk about how games get made. Meet with some union organizers. It'd set us ahead of Kotaku and IGN._

Good idea, Patrick. Now he's sharing a double queen for the next four nights with Brian and Clayton, because hotel prices near Moscone for the week of GDC are, in Tara's words, an absolute shitting nightmare.

The schedule of interviews is punishing. Brian shuffles through their notes on BART, sorting them by date and time as Pat watches the San Francisco skyline get closer through the window. They’re going straight from the airport to their first commitments, taking advantage of the time difference. Pat already feels like he’s missed dinner.

“Are you doing the Ubisoft tour with me, or is that just like a Brian POV thing," Brian asks, affixing a yellow sticky tab to one of the pages.

"Yeah, no, I'm sitting in on the unionization roundtable at two but I can meet you after and we can walk over," Pat replies. "And then we've got tickets for the afterparty, so we can drop off the gear at the hotel and go straight to that."

"Oh, cool," Brian says. His attention is already back on his notes. Poor guy; he hasn't really done game coverage since Unraveled took off and he started being pulled in every direction. But, Simone's in Poland doing something for Cyberpunk 2077, and Jenna'd literally just come back from PAX East and cashed in all her vacation days to _'not have to fly across the country, suckers'_ , so it's Pat and Brian on the road for the first time in what feels like forever, with Clayton coming in a day later, flying in the opposite direction after helping set up in Poland.

Busy year. New directions, new projects. The numedia hustle of trying to stay ahead, staying relevant, without sinking to the endless depths of Chads circlejerking each other's bad takes for the numbers. Pat's _proud_ of the direction their games coverage has taken. He thinks it's putting real good into the world, actually. He’ll do anything to stem the tide of discourse about whether Chun Li’s boobs jiggle the appropriate amount.

And he's glad as hell that he's doing shit with Brian again. Brian, who’s looking up and squinting into the early afternoon sun, looking travel-worn and deflated as traveling against the time zones does to a body. The sun refracts in the lens of his glasses as he pushes them up, momentarily dazzling. Pat catches his eye, and smiles.

—

So the thing is, Pat's straight. And Brian's straight.

Pat’s used to the incredulous looks whenever that comes up—and it comes up often enough, because people can’t help but want to dig their fingers into every fleshy, ugly aspect of Pat’s life. And Brian is—Brian, who embraces and defies all speculation in the same breath. It’d be obvious, wouldn’t it? The story of Gill and Gilbert, two oblivious bisexuals courting each other through increasingly elaborate pretenses to put their hands all over each other. They _know_ what it looks like. They’re, well… they know how the internet works. They know why _they_ work, as a phenomenon.

That's why they can laugh their way through so much straight-up horny content, because they've talked about it, and it doesn't…

...well, look, Brian’s straight. He said so himself. And despite really looking deep inside himself (like everyone really should, honestly, it's twenty-goddamn-twenty), Pat's only ever wanted to sleep with women, so, that's it, right?

They'd practically drafted a whole agreement on it, while G&G was still airing; right there in the lunch room, giggling over how absurd it was to make a declaration of friendship over microwave burritos and office coffee. There's no reason for either of them to lie about it. Polygon's probably one of the chillest places to be out, so it's not like either of them are in the closet.

It’s not a lie, how they are with each other. They’re not misleading people. They're just… being close. Being really good friends. Fuckin—it’s bullshit that men can’t touch each other, can’t be vulnerable; that women end up bearing the brunt of men turning to them to fulfil a very basic human need for intimacy; that men starve themselves of affection so badly that they literally die earlier because of it. Pat turned his back on toxic masculinity some time in university and he's fought it ever since, the expectation that he be emotionally reserved and not show affection for his friends. So it's nice, honestly, after a lifetime of bouncing around between military bases and not really forming a lot of close friendships, to have something like he has with Brian. He’s so fucking happy for it, genuinely. 

So, he touches Brian a lot. Lets Brian touch him back, in all the ways he wants. And if—if sometimes Pat feels a little unmoored by it, when his heart does a stronger _thump_ when Brian catches his eye and smiles at him from across the office, when his traitor brain and his traitor dick conspire and go _nah… unless…?_

Well, fuck, that’s just a lifetime of conditioning that wants him to confuse intimacy with sex. He doesn’t blame himself for that. He just recognizes it, and remembers how fucking lucky he is to have a friend like Brian, and it passes.

It always does.

Which is why, when he wakes up the next morning in a pretty advanced state of undress, tangled up with Brian, absent of memory and suspiciously bruised-feeling on, just, a _lot_ of his softest parts, he's a little...

Well, he's surprised, is all.

—

Brian must have been awake first, because he's looking down at Pat from inches away, at Pat's face smushed into the soft underflesh of his armpit. "Good morning," he says, quiet and weirdly even, as Pat blinks and peels his face off of Brian, skin clinging to hot skin with sweat and drool.

" _Mmgh,_ " Pat manages. His head's like a bucket of molasses, slow-pouring. An inventory of his body feels like—well, he feels like death, hot and sticky and vaguely nauseated, or at least threatened by it, dehydrated and just on the cusp of a headache. But the most concerning of all is that he's all of these things _pressed up against Brian_ , and he's most certainly not wearing a shirt.

"Wh'fuck happened," Pat mumbles as he jerkily tries to put some space between them, only to find that Brian's arm is wrapped around his back, trapped under his body.

He can _hear_ Brian lick his lips, that's how close they are, how sensitive Pat is to the sound. It sounds like how licking an envelope feels. "I don't know," Brian says. "Do you—do you know?"

Pat summons up his memory. He makes a real good go of it, despite the way it makes nausea stab through him when he thinks too pointedly, and he finds—

—not a lot. GDC afterparty. Lyft driver. Drink tickets. Dancing? Too uncoordinated to operate his phone; stumbling, sitting on the sidewalk, dessicated pizza crusted over from a heat lamp, the warmth of another body under his arm as the floor lurches upwards beneath them. Missing the lightswitch. Hands—teeth—pulling hair— _he likes that_ —

—like a dream it's already leaving him, non-Newtonian liquid pouring through his fingers and crumbling into half-formed mash when he tries to hold on to it to get a better look.

"Drunk," he concludes, fishing a hand out from underneath him to shove his fingers in his aching eyes. "Really, really drunk, geez. I don't have a goddamn thing in here."

Brian's breath gusts across Pat's hair as he sighs, and he almost sounds relieved. "Me neither," he admits, and lets out a shaky laugh. "Would you—would you get a load of us, Pat, huh."

With a few seconds of grace to catch up, Pat's consciousness has rocketed back to the aching present. "Oh, we're all... up... we're all up in each other's shit, huh," he groans, sitting up in the bed. The friction of his legs tangled hopelessly in the blankets speaks to that he's still wearing his jeans, and, he thinks—yeah, his boots as well, the soles of his feet pulsing angry and swollen in the leather.

"Yep," Brian replies, and then Pat hears him take in a sharp breath and bark it all out as a laugh again, harder, more shrill. "Oh my—oh my God, Pat, your _neck_ ," he giggles, on the razor edge of horrified and embarrassed and gleeful. "Who—oh my God, was that _me?_ "

Pat reaches up to touch his neck, uselessly. There's nothing he can feel with his fingertips, but he must be marked up something fierce, because his _skin_ aches, and Brian can't take his eyes off Pat's neck.

"Oh my God, oh my God," Brian repeats, into his hands.

"Holy shit," Pat breathes. "Did we—?"

"Oh, we did. We super did," Brian trills, and pulls his arm out from under Pat to touch the path of the hickeys with marveling fingers. Brian has a matching set, low on his chest. Pat can't see where it curves under his nipple, disappearing up under his hairy armpit to reappear, red and biting, down his tricep.

Pat's stomach does a weird, undefinable thing as he swings his legs off the edge of the bed, looks down at his hands in his lap for a moment before pulling them through his hair. "Well, fuck," he laughs. "I'm—I'm really sorry, man—"

"Me too," Brian cuts him off, quickly. "I'm so sorry, geez, I wouldn't have—I mean, I don't even—"

"Yeah, yeah," Pat agrees, and it's a mess of crosstalk. "Totally. For sure. It's fine. Are you fine? I mean, we were both—"

"—super, super drunk, yeah, um, I'm fine? If you're fine. Are you fine?"

Is Pat fine? Except for the humiliated burn in his stomach, he's—he's fine, actually. He thinks so. He's embarrassed, for sure, and so, _so_ hungover, and worried about Brian, but, Brian's smiling and laughing and blushing and everything, buoyantly handling the situation better than Pat would if it were anyone else. And it's—well, it's Brian. If it had to be anyone, right?

"Yeah, I think I'm fine," Pat answers, self-conscious of the way the word's lost meaning both as a word and, ultimately, as a concept. He's Schrodinger's Freakout until he opens the black box on this one.

Brian lets out a big breath and slumps against the headboard. "Okay. Okay. So, like. No foul, right? It was just, you know, a mistake."

"No one's fault," Pat agrees, and Brian, hah, sticks out his hand, like a proper business boy, and they shake on it, both laughing a little at the complete surreality of it. When they part, Brian's hand goes up to shield his eyes as he ducks his head and laughs.

"What?" Pat prompts, and Brian rubs his hand over his face.

"I was just thinking, like… geez, it's a good thing we ended up with each other? Because like… at least, if we were gonna be drunk and horny, we didn't end up with strangers, right?" Brian says, talking fast and loose. "Who knows, hah, who knows what would have happened! Like, at least we, um, we got each other back to the hotel, and—and I think we just—you know," Brian gestures between the two of them, "I don't feel like we, um, _did anything_."

"Yeah," Pat answers slowly, patting himself down. Like, he's still wearing his _belt_ , so it couldn't have gotten too wild. "Yeah, I think we're… uh, we're good."

"We're good," Brian echoes. "Just, hah, two guys, friends, who got drunk and, uh, made out, I guess."

Pat rubs the side of his neck, over the marks he can’t feel: evidence of a night he can’t remember and motivations he can’t justify. He wonders if he can pop out and buy a turtleneck from the Target down the block before his first commitment. Maybe some concealer. Definitely some Advil. 

Brian’s looking at him like he expects Pat to speak, so Pat clears his throat. “I’m gonna pop out and get something for our hangovers,” he says, and Brian’s expression softens. “You can have the shower first.”

“Okay, Pat,” Brian says, and Pat shoves yesterday’s shirt and sweater on and retreats from the scene of the narrowly dodged bullet.

 _Can you please get some pedialyte or something oh my god I haven't been this hungover since university_ , Brian texts, as Pat's at the self-checkout. _please be my angel of mercy._

 _That doesn't mean what you think it means,_ Pat texts back.

 _I know exactly what it means, Patrick. If you love me you'll made it fast and painless_.

Pat's smiling when he clicks his phone off. Well, they must be okay, then.

—

It's another long day made unnecessarily longer by the addition of the hangovers. Pat follows Brian's lead, as he usually does, and if Brian's mind lingers on the night before he doesn't show it. Pat limps and belches through the morning on sheer willpower, and by mid-afternoon he's… well, he's not 100%, because he's not _twenty_ any more, but it's mostly manageable.

Clayton meets them for dinner that night, looking rumpled and wide-eyed, with the look of a man who's been awake for thirty of the past twenty-four hours and is no longer certain what day it is. He puts on a good front, but he crashes while they're waiting for the bill, pillowing his head on his arms while Pat pays on the company card.

"You can have a bed to yourself," Brian says, rubbing Clayton's back. "Pat and I can handle sharing."

"You sure?" Clayton asks, muffled in the sleeves of his pullover sweater.

Pat looks up from signing the receipt. Brian catches his eye, gives him a little reassuring smile before he looks back down at Clayton. Well, Pat thinks, if Brian's fine with it, then, Pat doesn't see why not. No reason to make it weird. Pat's supposed to meet one of the leads from Microsoft for drinks tonight anyway, and Brian's greasing their nVidia contacts, so, who knows when they'll all stumble in. "Yeah, of course, Pat confirms, pulling out the third keycard from his wallet. "We'll try not to wake you up."

He doesn't miss the twist of Brian's smile, but, he guesses it is kind of funny.

—

It's late as hell when he gets in—so late, the room is dark and both Brian and Clayton are asleep. Pat stumbles through the equipment-packed room by phone-light. He's still, honestly, kind of buzzed from the meeting, not really ready to go to sleep yet, so he's grateful when he gets to the bed and sees that Brian's taken just the sheet, leaving him the comforter, so he won't wake Brian if he tosses and turns for a bit.

Brian sleeps warm—he knew that before, from sharing rooms on work trips and just from conversation, but now Pat knows that fact intimately. Still, Pat swallows back a lump in his throat when his phone light catches the smooth pale plane of Brian's bare shoulder. Brian sniffs and rolls over, away from the light, and the sheet follows, slipping down his back. The knob of his shoulderblade juts out as he rubs his face and burrows into his pillow, delicate and inviting to the touch.

Pat realizes he's been staring with a jolt, almost dropping his phone in his haste to turn off his flashlight. _Get it together, Pat_ , he admonishes himself as he pulls the comforter back and wraps it around himself in bed.

—

That resolution lasts all of about seven hours.

They’re all accustomed to some pretty tight quarters, from traveling for work and from living in tiny New York apartments with one bathroom and three roommates, so it's not _strange_ , per se, when Pat's doing all his morning shit the next day while Brian's in the shower. It's one of those fancy ones, a little glass-walled alcove with the rain showerhead coming from the ceiling.

Brian had taken one look at it when they'd first gotten to their room and made a noise that'd been _truly_ pornographic, promising to take the longest possible showers every morning, and he's clearly intending to make good on his threat because Pat's… well, Pat's done everything he can that's not showering, and he's got morning meetings, and Brian’s not budging. 

After the third reminder to get a move on, Pat rattles the door of the shower. "Hurry up, dipshit," he says. "I got places to be."

Brian's face comes closer to the fogged-up door, obscured but clearly grinning. "Geez, you big baby,” he says, “just get in here if you need to shower so bad. This stall is gi-nor-mous."

Pat frowns. Considers the wild turns of his life to this moment. Ignores the way his stomach clenches and prickles. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah!” Brian chirps. The glass squeaks as he clears away a swatch of condensation. "It's bigger than my actual entire bathroom at home, I swear to God. Didn't you shower together in gym class? Same thing. Just get in here. It'll be fine."

Pat—he—-he takes a second, honestly, to imagine how it looks from the outside observer, watching as he pulls his shirt over his head and shucks his boxers. Because there's dorm showers, and then there's… well, there's this, but, Pat _is_ gonna run late if he doesn't shower, and also, he kind of selfishly wants to call Brian on his bluff. There's no way he actually expects Pat, straight-laced Pat, to shower with him, and Pat burns unexpectedly with the need to prove him wrong.

The shower belches out a cloud of thick, hot steam as Pat opens the door. Brian jumps a little, squeaking, and ushers him inside. "Oh my God, it's so cold out there, don't let the heat out," he says, then steps back into the shower. "Wow, Pat! I didn't think you were gonna do it."

"I know," Pat says, feeling smug. He stretches his hands out into the misty stream of water coming from the ceiling. "Jesus, this is nice. How shitty do you think it'd be to install one of these back home?"

"Not worth it. The hot water alone would be murder. Plus, the space? You could fit me, you, Clayton, and a charcuterie board in here, easy," Brian says, gesturing expansively. His hand doesn't come close to hitting any of the walls.

Pat's been in weirder situations. Probably. Brian may be aggressively projecting normalcy but the addition of nudity to their easy banter is an interesting wrinkle, one that he's suddenly excruciatingly aware of now that the spiteful energy has worn off. "I think there's enough meat in here," he mutters, angling his body away from Brian a little, and Brian's laughter rings off the tiles.

As surreal as it is, Pat's technically on a timer, so he gets to his business and tries not to think about the wet, scrubbed-pink elephant in the room. Brian, who seems to not be doing much of anything in the shower any more, obliges him by moving out of the spray when Pat needs it, and monopolizing it when he doesn't, humming snatches of songs that echo pleasingly off the walls. Pat keeps his gaze staunchly above the nipple-line, above the line of hickeys still visible there, but the parts of Brian he can see, it's—

—okay, he slips once. Leaning over to scrub his feet, it's, it's impossible not to, you can't _blame_ him, but, he looks. It's natural, right? Like, nothing weird, it'd be. Uh. It'd be weirder to be weird about it, in these circumstances, like he has something to _hide_. But Brian's dick is right there, small and soft and dark, unkempt hair speckled with spray, and Pat's stomach leaps up into his throat as he looks away quickly, the image seared into his brain in a split-second exposure.

Pat finishes showering quickly, after that.

Brian gives him the water to rinse his hair, and when Pat opens his eyes, he sees Brian watching him with arms crossed, leaning one shoulder against the wall. He's—he's kind of red, all over, but especially in the face. "What?" Pat says, suspicious.

"Nothing!" Brian says, schooling his face into a smile. He leaps off the wall, looking unusually skittish. "Wait, though, I have an idea, hold on," he says, and that's all the warning Pat gets before he reaches down and yanks the tap all the way over to cold, drenching Pat in icy water.

Pat _hollers_ and launches himself out of the spray. "Fucker! Why!"

Brian laughs riotously, holding his stomach in one hand and protecting the tap with the other as Pat scrambles for it, trying to turn the hot water back on. "It's good for your pores, Pat!" he crows, wiggling deftly between Pat and the tap.

"Do a fucking charcoal face mask!" Pat wails. He's, oh, he's crushing Brian against the wall, isn't he, and Brian wheezes between giggles as they wrestle for control of the tap. Brian's eighty miles of wet skin, kind of gritty-feeling against his hairy bits, alternating slippery and tacky as Pat tries, largely unsuccessfully, to overpower him. He’s just too many limbs, too many deft little twists of his hips, Pat can’t get him off balance, too many—

—Pat knows he’s grinding his unmentionables all up on Brian, but it’s fucking _cold_ , and—and Brian started it, so, it’s not, Pat isn’t _trying_ anything by finishing it.

Finally, after a few seconds’ struggle that feel like agonizing hours under the cold water, Pat gets Brian’s left arm in a half nelson, squeezing it up and out of the way. "No, no fair! Your arms are so much longer than mine!" Brian laughs, and it's true: Pat’s, just, so much longer in general; he can wrap almost his whole body around Brian. Can, and does. He reaches around Brian’s right side and finally wrests control of the tap from him, hitting it until it goes to center and the water runs warm again.

"You son of a bitch," Pat complains bitterly, as Brian wiggles with laughter underneath him. He’s limp in Pat’s hold, deceptively so; he drops and does a quick two-step shuffle trying to get his free hand on the tap, and they both grunt as Pat has to shove Brian harder against the wall to keep him from it, his face pressed against the hard knobs of Brian’s shoulder, pinning Brian’s legs to the wall with his knees.

It’s—just—it’s so much touching. Pat can feel water pool between their bodies, unable to find even enough space to trickle between. Brian is steam-warm and sticky from it against Pat's chilled skin. His hipbone’s right in Pat’s groin, and Pat hasn’t let go—why the fuck hasn’t he let go? And why is Brian—Brian's _moving_ , little hitches of his hips that grind his ass back on Pat's dick. He can't be imagining it.

“Geez, Pat,” Brian murmurs, after a few pregnant seconds. His face must be pressed against the tiles. His fingers drop to the back of Pat’s wrist, tracing the jutting bones and the thin skin. “All you had to do was ask.”

Pat tenses, jerking his hand back, but Brian’s quicker, circling his wrist and keeping it in front of their bodies. Pat can feel—holy _shit_ —Brian’s dick bump up against the inside of his arm, and it makes his stomach drop down into his balls, immediately centering Pat’s attention on his blood rushing to his core, how his dick pulses where it’s pressed into Brian’s hipbone.

He feels—it’s—it’s cruel, he thinks, for Brian to fucking play him like this. Pat burns with it, burns with a hot little ember of shame and guilty desire, how he—

— it’s only physical. It’s a physical reaction to grinding his dick against something, it’s—it’s not Brian, he’s just taking the bit too far, it’s gone sour in Pat and he doesn’t—

“Fuck you,” Pat mutters, twisting his wrist, but Brian holds it firm. The way they’ve got each other in a mutual submission hold is not lost on him. How—how fucking dare Brian—if he _knows_ what he does to Pat, about how he’s suddenly become Pat’s one-man perpetual crisis machine, it’s, it’s not right to—

“ _Fuck_ you,” he repeats.

“You wouldn’t,” Brian says, low. Like a dare. Pat can feel his voice rumble through his back.

 _I would, I would_ ; Pat’s stomach sinks with the certainty of it, shredding through the veil of heterosexual explanations for the—for the way Brian’s ass grinds against him, for the way Pat’s hips jerk in response and Brian _hmms_ back at him, smug and all-seeing and challenging. _Don’t give me a reason to_ —

“Come on, do it, coward,” Brian goads him, pressing in on Pat’s hand, unmistakable in intent. His fingertips slide down the back of Pat’s hand, tangling their fingers, and, and, Pat hasn’t seen Brian’s face but now then all of a sudden he’s _holding Brian’s dick_ , and it’s, and it’s, it’s just really a lot, so much so that his brain shuts down all non-essential processes, only capable of taking in information about the almost-but-not-quite familiar heft of Brian’s dick in his hand, about how soft and sleek it feels but how hard it is underneath, how his hand remembers the motion almost instinctively, a motion he’s honed for two private decades and never once applied to anyone else.

Brian groans, hisses _fuck, yes, good_ as his head thunks against the tiles, as he bucks into Pat’s hand, and then _come on, lemme go, I wanna_ and Pat realizes he’s still pinning Brian with with arm up over his head. His hand slips from Brian’s neck and they both brace against the wall, backs bowed, curled up against each other like nested parentheses.

Pat jerks him hard and fast, graceless, Brian egging him on, gritting out orders to go even _harder_ and _faster_ , more than Pat would if he were treating himself, but Brian’s, Brian’s categorically not Pat, he’s a whole other person and Pat can’t think about that, can’t hear himself think over the roar of blood in his ears. Doesn’t think, so he doesn’t think too hard about how it feels to bend himself to Brian like this. How fucking good it—

Brian doesn’t say anything when he comes. He just breathes out through his teeth, hiccuping a little grunt in the back of his throat as he jerks and pulses in Pat’s grip and it’s—and it’s over. Brian’s laughing before he’s even done, the tension melting out of him immediately as he goes lax in Pat’s arms and sags against the wall. Awareness of the rest of the world slams back into Pat, like the water hammering relentlessly against his back.

“Oh, fuck,” Brian sighs, high-pitched and laughing-tremulous, “fuck, I’m really cold now, that’s. That’s illegal; move, move, gimme the water again.”

Pat does as he’s told, peeling his body off of Brian and backing up out of the water. Brian groans with unselfconscious pleasure as he cranes his face up into the spray, eyes closed, red-cheeked and soft with ecstasy. It’s lead in Pat’s chest, radioactive and heavy.

Brian gives himself a cursory rub down, scratching his fingers indolently through the springy forest of his hair, then cups some water and chucks it at the wall, at the near-invisible splatter of his—of his _come_ , Jesus Christ, Patrick.

Brian’s unfazed. That’s the most surreal part, honestly, how Brian can smile at him like he does, soft and sweet and just a little mischievous, his eyes big and guileless. Nothing in Brian reflects the unbridled horsepower of Pat’s internal panic right now. Brian steps toward Pat, hand outstretched like he’s gonna sidle right into Pat’s space again and Pat, he, he—

—he doesn’t know what he wants, but it’s not _this_ , this overwhelming fearful clawing aching emptiness swallowing him from the inside out, like looking over the edge of a cliff and hearing the call of oblivion. He shoots his hands up and Brian balks, a question on his face, and Pat shakes his head.

“No, it’s—fine,” Pat stammers out, only half hearing Brian’s gentle insistence that he _doesn’t mind, Pat, really_ as he scoots around Brian and flees the shower stall, into the bracingly cooler air of the bathroom. His own dick waggles as he towels himself off with a cursory aggression, rigid and ugly and shameful.

He digs his fingertips into his thigh until it hurts, until his erection wilts enough to wrap his towel around himself and leave without—without scandalizing Clayton, at least, gentle good kind refreshingly unsexy Clayton, whose dick Pat’s never touched, who of all people in this hotel room is blameless and doesn’t need Pat’s indecent desires pressed upon him.

Clayton’s reclining in his already-remade bed, shoes and bags ready on the floor beside him. He looks up from his phone when Pat passes him, mostly naked and still dripping, still holding the clothes he _was_ gonna change into before he left the bathroom. “You alright?” he asks, and Pat turns his back to start shoving his wet-tacky legs into his boxers.

“Yep!” Pat lies, handily. “Just realized how late we are, sorry!”

Clayton makes a patient, understanding noise and goes back to his game, leaving Pat to get dressed to the near-silent hum of the shower continuing to run in the other room.

—

So they get a little drunk that night. Not as much as the first night, thankfully, but as it turns out, game developers know how to _drink_ , and surreptitiously working a room to figure out who they can grease for in-studio interviews later involves a lot of small-talk drinking. This is the part Pat doesn't like, so much; he can handle the small talk, with the right people, but the prospect of just walking into a party and intuiting who's open to be approached for conversation is really more Brian's speed.

Together, it turns out they can work a room pretty efficiently. Brian running point, _oh, let me introduce you to my coworkers, Patrick and Clayton_ , then he flits off to find the next prospect, and he and Clayton mop up what's left by judiciously applying business cards and handshakes. It's a good system, but it means he only sees Brian in bursts throughout the night, and every time he does Brian is somehow even more rumpled and charming.

Once, towards the end of the night, he introduces Pat with a louche arm slung over Pat's shoulders, and stays like that, leaning so far into Pat's space that Pat has to wrap one of his arms around Brian's middle just to hold them both up. His body is solid under Pat’s hands; solid, and familiar. Brian _beams_ at him then, patting him handily on the chest through the introductions.

The person Brian's introducing is working on… something... something about representation in games, Pat couldn't hear over the noise of the bar and over the roar of blood in his ears. But he smiles in the right places, figures either Clayton caught it or he'll figure it out later going through business cards. Brian probably just—he probably just wanted the developer to know that Polygon's _cool_ , that they can _hang_ , Pat figures. Just a little, you know, _we see you and we support you_. Brian's good at that kind of stuff, saying without _saying_. There's a reason the background of G&G was a big fuck-off rainbow.

Clayton's eyebrows are practically in his hairline when Brian eventually peels off to go find someone else, and he exchanges cards with the developer—shit, Pat didn't catch his name or even his job title the entire time Brian was leaning on him, so much for that. He turns to Pat. "What's going on with you two?" he asks, mildly, and Pat shrugs.

"Maybe he's starting to feel it," Pat elides, gesturing to his own beer, and Clayton snorts.

—

When they get back to the hotel room, Clayton drops his coat and bag off and then immediately excuses himself to go call his girlfriend before it gets even later on the east coast. 

The moment the door closes, Brian looks over at Pat. He's got his bottom lip in his teeth, and his hands flutter uselessly, going from cuff to hair to ear to the hem of his sweater, like he doesn't quite know what to do with them. He's swaying, a little, not like he's drunk—though he is, probably—but like he's forgotten how to stand unobtrusively. Eventually, he rubs his palms on his pants and sits down on Clayton's bed, opposite Pat.

"Pretty, uh, pretty busy day, huh, Pat?" Brian begins, and Pat clicks off his phone. Puts it down deliberately on the side table.

"Mmhmm," Pat answers, non-committal. He's not sure if he's ready for this conversation, but if he has to be, he'll let Brian lead. "How are you holding up?"

Brian laughs, high-pitched. "It's, uh, it's, been a little more, uh, wild than I thought it was gonna be?"

Pat knows he's taking the coward's path, but, he lets Brian linger on that thought for a while, letting silence do the work of answering for him. Brian, predictably, wilts under it. He sniffs, stands, crosses the small gap between their beds. Looks down at Pat. Picks at his painted thumbnail with his teeth.

"I, uh, I wanted to," Brian continues. His eyes are huge in his face, a little glassy. "I _wanted_ to, but. Uh. Sorry," he apologizes, and folds up his legs to sit on the bed beside Pat. His hands hesitate a split second—every second feels like a small eternity, so his hesitation is heartbreakingly obvious to Pat—before they alight gently on Pat's belt. "I'm. I know. I know it's probably a surprise, given, the talking," he stutters, "But I'm better at, uh, just doing something, without talking about it. Just kind of, you know, jumping in, Pat. That's kind of. My thing."

Pat blinks at Brian. He keeps his hands loose at his sides, open. Brian's throat bobs as he swallows.

"You gotta… you gotta say something, Pat," Brian says, quietly. "Give me something."

"I thought you were straight," Pat murmurs, and Brian's eyes go even wider.

"I thought _you_ were straight!" Brian exclaims. His fingers curl around Pat's belt. "You were—you _told_ me!"

"So did you," Pat counters. He takes Brian's hands, uncurling them, pulling them away. Brian's mouth twists in—embarrassment?—as he takes his hands back.

"It doesn't have to be anything," Brian says, quietly. Pat watches his fingernail slide up his cuticle, tearing it, and Brian hisses and pops his finger in his mouth. He doesn't look at Pat. "Just, if you want to."

Well then—

—that's the question, isn't it? What does Pat _want?_ He's as unaccustomed to the thought as a fish would be to flying; why desire the air, when the water all around you is perfectly acceptable? And if he, uh, _wants_ it, he doesn't… well, they only have however long until Clayton comes back, and Pat's, well. If he's gonna, he'd… he'd rather take his time.

Look at him, having a preference as to how long he'd like his male best friend and coworker to suck his dick. Awfully big of him, he thinks. He wouldn't have had the thought before this moment, but with Brian here, in front of him, offering—

Pat clears his throat. "What do you mean, 'it doesn't have to mean anything?'"

"I mean, we can just... be friends? But, you know, friends who…" Brian's eyes dart to the side, as if the words to make this feel _normal_ are written on the inside of the curtains. He makes an abortive, but eloquent nonetheless, hand gesture. "You know."

"We can be _friends_ ," Pat repeats, "Friends who... friends who—" he swallows, "—jerk each other off? _Handjob_ friends, Brian?"

Brian's face falls and he—Pat's rarely seen him _shrink_ , before, but he does, bowing his shoulders as he jerks to his feet, away from Pat. "You don't have to— _you're_ the one who—" he starts, almost angry, then seems to catch himself. He rubs his hands on his pants, again. "It's okay, if you don't want to. It's, uh, we're cool."

"Cool," Pat repeats, "Yeah, we're cool."

Brian nods, and mutters _cool_ under his breath. "I can, uh, I'll text Clayton and ask if he's fine sharing with me, if you want."

"What, like, the bed?" Brian nods again, and Pat sighs. "Don't be stupid, man, it's fine. I don't mind sharing a bed with you."

That seems to lift some of the burden off of Brian's shoulders. His mouth quirks up on one side as he runs his hand through his hair. "Okay. Hoo! Geez. Alright. Um. Sorry, for making it weird. I just thought, uh…"

"It's fine," Pat says, putting as much calming energy as he can into his smile. "It's—don't worry about it."

If Brian wants to say any more—and he looks like he does, from the pinch of his mouth—he doesn't, in the end. He just holds Pat's eye for a few long seconds, then visibly shakes it off, transmuting whatever emotion he had into restless energy. Then he grabs his clothes and goes to change in the bathroom, and, that's that.

By the time Brian's returned, Pat's shimmied down in bed with the covers up. It's not to avoid further conversation, of course, even if they only talk after that to confirm when it's fine to turn off the nightstand light.

—

So if Pat's gay—or, uh, bi, he guesses—that's—well. People are always growing and changing, he figures. And it doesn't, it doesn't have to mean he's interested in men, if it's just a... it's just a thing that's happened with Brian, so far.

He doesn't think about other men like that. He never has before, anyway. He doesn't think so. He tries, lying in bed that night staring at the popcorn ceiling of their hotel room, Brian breathing peacefully beside him and Clayton snoring, less peacefully, slightly farther away. He imagines touching Clayton the same way he wants to touch Brian—and, God, he _does_ want to touch Brian, even if the knowledge that he does singes an afterimage against his brain like looking at the sun—but Clayton’s got a girlfriend, so he feels guilty and imagines instead touching Bijan, or Thomas; even puts his hand on his dick a little to really jostle the nervous system a bit, but. It feels clinical. Presumptive. He doesn't know how any of them feel under his hands; doesn't know how they smell, doesn't know how their bodies feel against his, and conjuring up those images doesn't feel like… it doesn't come as easily as the sense memory of Brian does.

Ah, there's—there it is. Pat slinks his hand off his dick, guilty, and rolls over onto his stomach.

 _Some people don't feel sexual attraction until they're already very close to someone_ , Pat reminds himself. But that hasn't been the case for him, so far. Pat _loves_ women, immensely and immediately. So this—this is something new, maybe. Because the things he, the things he wants to do to Brian, the way those thoughts make him _feel_ , like, a hot coal burning right behind his dick… the intensity of the affection he feels for Brian sometimes welling up behind his eyes like a migraine aura… those are. Those are real. He has to admit that to himself.

Fuck. _Fuck_. Pat shoves his head under his pillow and scream-exhales silently into it, mindful of his noise. He hasn't even moved and his heart's beating like he's slammed an energy drink.

Has the only reason he hasn't—you know—with guys been because the planets have never aligned like they have with Brian? That alchemy of intimacy and opportunity? Is his whole fucking—his whole fucking _thing_ , the woke straight guy schtick, how much of that was just, was just, willful ignorance and blind luck that someone like Brian hadn't yet gotten under it?

Pat lets out an involuntary groan when his brain helpfully fills in the idea of Brian _under_ anything. Like a dream about someone whose face you've never seen, he tries to see Brian's face but he can't, he can't picture the look on Brian's face when he, when he, in the shower—

Pat hadn't seen it. It was too fast. Three, maybe four minutes, none of which he actually looked Brian in the eyes. His brain fills in the memory, gives it context in full pornographic living colour: Brian on his stomach, Pat over him—fighting—Brian daring him to take—

No. _Nope_. He yanks back that train of thought, curling up on his side with his knees to his chest. He digs his fingertips into the meat of his neck until it scratches, eight points of pain to focus on rather than the dull sickening pulse of his groin, like a flagellant.

He focuses on breathing. Focuses on the gentle sway of Brian's shoulder, facing away from him in bed. Pushes everything down, where the thoughts don't claw at him, where the panic of his whole world reconfiguring around Brian feels dull and far away. 

—

He doesn't know how, or when—he lingers in the half-awake state between dreams and anxiety for what feels like hours—but eventually he must fall asleep, because he wakes in the murky curtain-pulled light of the hotel room for no reason he can tell, except for that he is suddenly, achingly conscious.

He must have turned toward Brian in what was left of the night. The heat probably woke him; Brian's like a furnace all down Pat's front, and Pat's skin prickles under the starchy comforter with both sweat and anxious proximity. His arm's stuck under Brian's neck, hand curled up and under the pillow—if he inhales, and he can't _help_ but do so, when he realizes—the sleep-soft smell of Brian's hair floods his senses. Warm, and lingering, and earthy.

He's—hard. Of fucking course he's hard. God _damnit_.

His arm's trapped under Brian; dragging it out would only wake him. Pat listens to the sound of Brian's breathing, which is even, but not snoring. Probably right on the edge of wakefulness. So he moves slowly, bringing his knee up to get leverage to twist his hips, at least, away from Brian, futureproofing for the inevitability of him waking up and seeing—feeling—Pat like this.

Brian shifts and Pat feels his heart thud against his chest. He fuckin—he fucking freezes, because all of a sudden Brian's snuffling and rubbing his head into the pillow like he's waking up, then he's—then he's making a noise in his throat, something like clearing it and something like sweet confusion, wakefulness dawning in him as he realizes the extent to which Pat's pressed against him.

Fear spreads through Pat like he's been plunged in glacial water, seeping out from his stomach. "Sorry, I'll just," he breathes, and moves to free his arm.

Brian makes another noise, half-awake but insistent, and reaches back, grabbing clumsily for Pat's other arm and, making contact, pulling it across himself. Pat seizes, fully wrapped around Brian now, his hand curled near Brian's breastbone. Brian snuffles again, lets out a happy little _mmm_ noise—shuffles back against Pat and—stops.

Pat can sense when Brian realizes he's hard; he can hear the long, slow exhale, can _feel_ it against his chest. It feels like fuckin' eons, civilizations rising and falling in the space between that exhale and the next inhale. Finally, he feels—he feels Brian move backwards into him, closing even the few millimeters of distance between them.

The last thing Pat wants to think about right now is his dick but it's—but it's inevitable. They fit together too well. Pat stifles a moan against Brian's hair as he slots right in the groove of Brian's ass, just the thin fabric of their sleeping clothes separating them, which is really nothing at all. Pat really meditates on that, on how it's really only a couple molecules between him and the molten heat of Brian's body, how—how heat is vibration, really, and how Brian's—Brian's moving against him, just a little.

With his arm over Brian's body, holding him, he can feel Brian's bicep flexing as Brian's hand moves in his own lap. His mind fills in the picture: Brian's long-fingered hand slipping under the waistband of his sleep pants, sifting through the wiry hair, wrapping around his dick, squeezing himself, only the barest hint of movement. Brian's bicep pulses a few times then stops, and Brian lets out his breath shaky and slow again.

He shouldn't. He _shouldn't._ Oh, hell, oh, fuck, he really shouldn't, but.

Slow enough he still—he could still play it off as asleep, if he had to, if he'd read it wrong, god, he _hopes_ —Pat rubs his dick against Brian's ass, and Brian... he lets own a little moan in answer, the kind that sinks right into Pat's bones.

"Yeah, yes," Brian breathes out, and Pat presses his forehead to Brian's shoulderblade because, because he's going to _Hell_ for this one, for—for the everything, really, but especially for this, and the enormity of the thing they're walking backwards into like, like, it's a horror game, and they're afraid of the jumpscare.

"Ssh," Pat replies, just as quiet, pressing the sound into Brian's skin so he can feel it hissing there. "Ssh, fuckin', Clayton is sleeping."

Brian does a real convincing job of pretending to be asleep, Pat gives him credit for that. Somehow without really moving at all, he's up on Pat's dick even harder, increasing the movement of his hips, flexing his thighs. His little exhalations even sound like sleep noises. But he's—he's really not asleep, not if the bowing of his arm under Pat's is any indication.

Fuck _reciprocation_ , or any nonsense like that; the need to touch Brian again is overwhelming, and Pat flattens his hand against Brian's chest, can feel the sharper inhale as his fingertips brush over one soft nipple. He slides his hand down Brian's chest, open-palmed and flat and touching as much as he can down the ladder of Brian's ribs, the undulations of his stomach.

He knocks Brian's hand out of the way, wrist-to-wrist, and spreads his fingers into the tent of Brian's sleep pants, wraps his hand around Brian's dick. Brian's fingernails scrabble on the back of Pat's hand before settling restlessly on his wrist, not stopping Pat, not resisting at all, not guiding—just there, pressing divots against the bones as Pat pumps his hand and Brian arches into him.

It's—in another context, in another context where Pat could be proud of his actions and not chased by furtive, aching, desperate shame—it's almost gratifying how Brian grows into his grasp, how his squat perfect handful of dick plumps up and gets hard in his hand. He doesn't need to be able to see to be able to feel the way Brian's dick burbles up pre-come, dripping sideways down against his pants and smearing all over the backs of Pat's knuckles.

Brian hisses through his teeth when Pat rubs his hand flat over the head, when he curls his fingers down to play at the place where foreskin meets it. He hadn't had a chance to explore this before, to test out the ways that make Brian twitch, that make him struggle to keep quiet. He can hear it in Brian's throat, the noises that wanna bubble up through his lips; feels it himself, even though no one's got a hand on his dick at all. His own dick's an afterthought, almost, just a wash of the pleasant pressure of Brian's ass rubbing up against him, almost but not enough.

He can feel when the shudders coursing through Brian's body collapse in on themselves like a wave. He can feel the way Brian's thighs tremble against his. Can feel it when Brian's fingertips dig in, pulsing against Pat's wrist, trying so hard to—Brian whimpers, breathes in heavy through his nose, tips his head back into Pat's space.

"Oh, f— _Pat_ ," Brian murmurs, and Pat's heart judders against his ribs even as he jerks Brian off just that little bit faster, careening Brian to that cliff edge.

"Ssh," Pat shushes him, and Brian whines, but Pat can't—he can't—yes, sure, Clayton is _sleeping_ not five feet away from them, yeah, but it's more that he can't… Pat can't hear Brian say his name like that, not like _this_. He can't bear the sound of his name on Brian's lips, the broken little breathy whine, the way Brian's voice breaks on the _ah_.

He slides his forearm out from under the pillow and folds it over Brian's face, catching Brian's panting mouth in the crook of his elbow and holding him there, hand clasped on Brian's shoulder. Held like that, muffled into Pat's arm, Brian shakes and moans and whines and _bites_ into the soft muscle, breathing harsh and nosy into Pat's skin, until he jerks and and goes still, soundless but for the way his breath chokes in his throat as warmth spurts over Pat's hand.

Pat doesn't—he doesn't quite know what to do with his hand, honestly, but he doesn't want to jerk back like he's disgusted, because he's—he's not, really, even though the feeling of wet fabric clinging to his knuckles is, well, it's not great. Dewy, and warm, and slick. So he just keeps his hand there, despite how with every second that passes he's sure Brian's gonna shove him away again, now that the furtive scramble to orgasm's cleared from his mind.

Brian's breathing slows against the crook of his arm, eventually going lax against him, melting against Pat with a sigh that prickles the hair on the back of Pat's arm. Slowly, Brian traces his fingernails up the arm that's shoved unceremoniously down his pants, shivering-lightly, to where their bodies are pressed together.

Brian's hand slides down between them, almost curiously, fingertips light and delicate as he searches out the head of Pat's cock—and he finds it, unerringly, feeling it damp where Pat's seeped through the fabric of his boxers. With a surprisingly deft touch he hooks his thumb in Pat's waistband, hooks his fingers in the waistband of his own, shoving the handful of fabrics down between them without sophistication, freeing Pat's dick to smear against the small of his back.

Pat stifles the groan that threatens to break free at the velvety-soft feel of skin on skin, of the heavy weight of his dick shoved up against the perfect fuckin' globes of Brian's ass. He gently slides his hand out from the mess of Brian's cock—Brian hisses and hitches his ass up, kicks his feet out so they tangle in Pat's shins, giving Pat space to coat his own dick with Brian's come. Brian grabs his own hip, pulling his asscheek up, so that when Pat shoves himself back up against Brian it's a slick, filthy slide up between his cheeks.

It's a struggle to not give voice to the noise that wants desperately to come out of him. Brian is so hot, and so close, and so tight, and so smooth—Pat thrusts against him, furtive twitchy little grinding motions, barely believing and so, so desperate. Unpleasantly embarrassing, but thrilling, memories of being a teenager flicker through his mind: rutting up against someone else for the first time, knowing you shouldn't, feeling like the Almighty is going to come thundering down on you.

The crook of Brian's neck grows hot and damp with his breath as it shudders out of him, as he grinds against Brian like it's gonna go somewhere, like this particular move's worked for him since he was seventeen and on a hair trigger, but fuck if it doesn't feel like it might anyway. It's so—it's so close he could reach out and touch it with his fingertips, as real and as present as Brian's body against him.

It's his turn to curse Brian's name under his breath when Brian moves away, just enough to slide a hand down between them again, to wrap clever fingers around Pat's dick and pull it down; Brian's turn to shush him as he throws one leg up and pushes Pat's dick up between his thighs where the heat pours off of him like standing dick-first at the edge of a volcano.

"Ssh, just, yeah—" Brian murmurs, and Pat can feel the power in Brian's glutes as he flexes, tightening like a velvet vise around Pat's dick. Pat chokes with it, with how tight and perfect it is, and it—fuck, oh, it doesn't take long at all before he's pumping his dick into that small space, fucking up against Brian, feeling pleasure unzipper down his whole body with a release that spends his whole body, making everything wet and slick.

His face is damp. It's damp as he rests his forehead against the knobs of Brian's bent neck, as he wipes his eyes on Brian's superheated flesh, and tries to find a breathing pattern that makes sense for his broken-open body, flayed and reconstituted to meld perfectly with Brian's. There's a tremble running through Brian like he's vibrating on every breath, even as he reaches back and grabs Pat's hand and holds it, tightly.

"Jesus," Pat curses under his breath, and Brian huffs out a little laugh. It's inelegant, what his softening dick does against Brian's thighs when Pat shifts up onto one elbow, but it can't be helped.

He wants to—he wants this to end differently than last time. Like, maybe… like maybe they could talk about it. Once is a data point, twice is a line, but three times is, three times is a _pattern_. He's always been a coward in love, but not usually… not usually after he's made someone come. It's all ass-backwards and he has to—he has to set it—

Brian's as still as death, eyes squeezed shut as Pat's repositioning rolls him so Pat can see his face. "Hey," Pat says, squeezing Brian's fingers in his own. "You 'kay?"

Brian's lips purse, the flash of upper teeth as he bites them bloodless before he opens his eyes and looks up at Pat, and he's—

—Pat's gone a long time in his life being glad he's never seen this look on someone's face after he's gotten off—

—Brian's _scared_.

There's no other word for it. Even in the murky light of the hotel room, Pat can see the stormclouds in Brian's eyes, the pinched-off blankness of his expression. Pat's heart is in his throat before the thought—the _terror_ —is fully formed in his mind, his mouth working at forming the framework of words before his brain's filled it in with useful content, gaping uselessly like a fish.

"Brian—I—I'm sorry, if I—" is what he gets out, and at his words Brian's jolting out of the bed as if electrified by them.

Wordless, silhouetted against the curtains and rimmed with light, Brian rubs his hands on his sleep pants, on his shirt—then pulls them away from his body with a jerk, long fingers glistening with spend. "I'm gonna go shower," he stumbles out, and lurches around the bed. His pants cling, wet-stuck, bunched up under his thighs. "Don't—it's fine—I'm just gonna go shower."

"Brian—" Pat whisper-shouts as Brian gracelessly makes his way through the gloom and into the bathroom, lock flicking behind him and fan stirring to life with the light. The shower's on moments later. The toilet lid clacks shut. Nothing.

Shit. _Shit_.

Pat closes his eyes against the sick lurch of disgust that seizes him, recontextualizing the events of the last few days, making his arms prickle cold and hot and scared. He rubs his hands against his face, tries to breathe, finds he can't—not evenly, not without his throat spasming. A little whine of shame and fear escapes him, his whole body cringing inward, and he lunges for the garbage can.

His next breath is a sob, unmistakable, and his heart skips a beat and thuds hard on the next when Clayton turns over in his sleep, wincing as he inhales into consciousness and blinks blearily at Pat.

"Wh—'n up?" Clayton mumbles, and Pat just shakes his head—no, no, no—and holds the garbage can to his chest in misery.

Clayton's gaze sharpens with the long-suffering ease of someone accustomed to wrangling his less responsible friends, and he's sliding his spindly bare legs out of the covers. "Hey, alright," he soothes, and Pat's face scrunches up, rejecting the kindness. "Sick? Hungover? What do you need?"

 _A cardboard box to put my shit in when we get back to NYC_ , Pat thinks, mutinously, and scrubs his face. Clayton just waits, sitting on the edge of his own bed, observing. There's no missing that Brian's not in bed—no missing, probably, the miasma of sex and shame that Pat feels radiate off of him like a bad smell in a cartoon. Diplomatically, Clayton doesn't say anything about either.

"I fucked up," Pat mumbles, and Clayton nods slow and sure.

"Looks like it," he says, and the sheer simplicity of Clayton's acceptance shocks a morbid little laugh out of Pat.

"No, I mean, like, real bad."

Clayton looks over his shoulder at the closed bathroom door, scritching his fingers through his beard. Characteristically, he doesn't say anything for some time, which Pat appreciates. He doesn't think he could stomach being told _it's fine._

"You'll work it out," Clayton says, eventually. "Things being fucked up is kind of your guys' whole deal."

"Thanks," Pat says, dry.

He stares into the small plastic garbage can, at the crumpled note paper and the gum wrappers and the other detritus of travel. "Clayton," he asks without looking up, and Clayton makes a questioning noise in response. "Do you… you know, do you have any friends who you, like…" Pat can feel his hand curl slightly, intimating the universal gesture for jacking off. "Sometimes you—"

"No," Clayton answers, cutting him off. When Pat looks up, Clayton's leaning forward with his hands clasped intently in his lap, the picture of calm stability. He's looking right at Pat. "Never. Not even a little bit."

"Oh," Pat breathes out, laughing a little on the exhale. "Okay. Okay."

—

Brian comes out of the bathroom eventually, pink and towel-clad, shooting Pat a little smile as he collects his clothes and disappears back into the bathroom to change. Clayton'd burrowed back into his blankets, just his face illuminated by Two Dots, and as the bathroom door shuts for the second time, he catches Pat's eye.

"I'm gonna give you some time," he says. He gets up and shuffles on pair of pants and his coat. "You guys should figure it out before we get back."

Pat, who hasn't been able to bring himself to lie back down in bed, nods. "Yeah, we will."

When Brian returns a second time, he's fully dressed for the day. It's not lost on Pat that Pat’s comparatively more bare, more exposed, especially considering that Brian looks completely unruffled. "I'm done in the bathroom," he says, busying himself with folding his sleeping clothes and putting them in his laundry bag. "Do you wanna go grab some breakfast before it's time to head over to Moscone? There's a place I saw down the street that serves—"

"Brian," Pat cuts him off, and Brian's shoulders go up to his ears before he flattens them back down. "I don't—can we just talk?"

Brian clears his throat and shoves his laundry bag into his suitcase. "I—I don't have anything to talk about, Pat, it's fine. If you just, uh, if you just wanna be, uh, casual, we're good."

Are they, though? Pat's too chickenshit to push. He's always trusted that Brian will tell him the truth, and if—if he questions Brian here, what else must he mistrust? But the nauseating shame is like a house fire at his back, and the jump is almost beginning to look more appealing. Almost.

Brian fills in his silence with a nervous laugh. "It's just—it's just a bit of nerves, Pat. It's good. We're good. I liked it, okay? But we, uh, we can't do that shit around Clayton? We're gonna get hauled into HR."

"Yeah," Pat agrees, because—because if that's the takeaway, then, sure.

"Yeah," Brian repeats. "Yeah. Okay. Are you, um, gonna shower? Should I wait?"

"No, yeah," Pat stammers, and gets to his feet. Brian averts his eyes. "Yeah, good. I'll just, uh, wait for me, okay?"

—

The world doesn't end. They wrap GDC with hours and hours of footage. He and Brian go through Clayton's B-roll on the plane, taking notes on what's going to be available for them when they sit down to edit it all together back in New York. Brian finishes his clamato juice and steals Pat's. It's fine. It's not _easy_ , but it's fine. They're professionals.

They get back to work. They edit the videos. Tara's proud of them, even as she grimaces over the expense reports. Pat does a video for Video Games Explained about motion blur and nausea effects, and shoots video for a few more skits, including some with Brian, and it's—totally normal. Totally, completely normal, down to Brian's casual affection, down to the way Pat's heart leaps when Brian fires that gigawatt smile on him and the way Pat has to wrangle down how it makes his whole body flush with happiness.

Maybe Brian wants to leave it on the road. Maybe it was just the inherent horniness of traveling in close quarters, the crossroads of drunkenness and lowered inhibitions and proximity and the chaotic energy of being outside your comfort zone. Maybe, back on home turf, Patrick's just a coworker, just a friend, just one of many possible consorts for the internet's most beloved video boy.

That's… fine. That's fine, he tells himself. He can be a friend who Brian's fucked, past tense, _firmly_ past tense. If Brian wants to move on, if he's… god, if he's _ashamed_ , then, he's doing Pat a kindness by only relegating Pat back to the friendzone, not any _farther_. It would have been easy for things to break bad between them, but Brian—maybe he's done this before. Maybe he's not the first person Brian's clandestinely hooked up with and had to look in the eye the next day without making it a whole Thing.

Pat's had less experience with that. Zero is less, anyway. But he thinks he can pick up the moves.

—

It takes a few weeks before they're working on something together again, but eventually Brian needs to start generating ideas for the next season of Unraveled, so Pat buys a case of beer and brings it over to Brian's one grey afternoon.

"Can we go back to the Mario well?" Brian says, well into scribbling down a page of possibilities. It's all word salad, a web of linked ideas, spitballing everything all at once. The bizarre alchemy of his mind. "Mario Party, something, maybe, Mario Party as a poor substitute for group therapy for you and your friends, like, a sort of digital Fight Club? Oh, hmm. Mario Kart, same energy, but…"

"Mario Kart as an metaphor for the invisible, uneven distribution of wealth and privilege under capitalism, according to the driver you pick," Pat adds, and Brian cackles as he writes it down in big letters, underlining it three times.

"Perfect, yes, love it, perfect, definitely," Brian says, tapping his pen against his notebook. It's cute, how he brainstorms in analogue still. "I haven't played Kart in… so long, dude. It might have been since G&G, honestly. I'm gonna need a refresher."

Pat leans back and stretches his arms over his head, feeling his shoulders pop. "Do you still have it?"

"On the Switch, yeah," Brian says. "Is it break time?"

"I think it's break time."

They adjourn to the couch, detouring to drop their empties into the recycling in the kitchen. Pat's feeling good, mostly; he hasn't really had a lot to drink since San Francisco, so even two light beers in, he's feeling just loose and warm. It's nice, too—he'd been worried, about whether they'd—whether they'd have this again, and, it turns out it's fine. The relief is almost more heady than the alcohol.

Brian starts up the game and they settle in, picking their characters. Pat's brain's been packed full of so much other crap since the last time they played this, almost two years ago, but he picks Wario like it's second nature and waits while Brian agonizes over Shy Guy versus Yoshi.

"I'm gonna super suck at this," Brian mutters while they wait for the race to start. "Don't laugh at me."

"I would never," Pat says, hand over his heart, and then they're off.

Pat's not as rusty as he thought he'd be, but it turns out Brian's a _fucking liar_ , because he handily scoops up a slew of wins right away. If Pat were a lesser man, he'd feel upset by being so roundly outclassed, but he doesn't have it in him to be competitive. Besides, it's technically research; after each race they switch up the characters, taking notes on how they feel different and how it might fit into some sort of framework for an Unraveled thesis.

"BDG Unravels the Secret Hunger Games Economy Of Random Items," Pat says, struggling around an unbanked turn. "Fuckin', course design, man, who designs these."

"BDG Unravels the Keynesian Stimulus Fallacy of Public Works Projects Through, fuck, Through Track Design," Brian adds, then cries out in dismay as he follows Pat over the edge of the course.

"You already did one on Mario _with_ a joke about military spending," Pat points out, and Brian sighs. "Also, way too complicated."

"I know, but it's such a fertile playground, Pat," he whines, and throws himself back against the couch while he waits for his kart to get towed back up onto the course. "Okay, cancel this one, we gotta do all the babies against each other at once and see if it knocks anything loose about inherited privileges."

Pat sucks air in through his teeth. "Shit, yeah, that's a good one. Okay, one more."

They go Baby Mario and Baby Luigi against each other ( _"is this Succession? This is just Succession"_ ), with a slew of computer babies to get a good spread of characters. Having knocked the dust off of their reflexes it's actually pretty close, dramatic all the way until they're going into the last section of the last lap with Brian in the lead.

"Hey, hey, Pat, hey," Brian says, and Pat can't look but he _knows_ the expression on Brian's face.

"What?"

"Loser sucks the winner's dick," Brian says, and Pat takes—okay, Pat takes a second to fully process that, because he thought, well, he thought that had been _shelved_. Brian laughs, steering with his whole body around the final corner. "Come on, Pat," he goads, shooting Pat a look, "Make it hard for me. I still owe you one from GDC, anyway."

That startles Pat into motion. "Yeah, I'll make it hard for you," he mutters, feeling his face light up when Brian laughs even harder: _hoo, Pat!_

It's a damn close race. And Brian would have won, too—he cries out as Pat snipes him with his held shell, going careening off the walls of the course. Pat overtakes him and cinches the win, heart pounding.

"Nice! Nice!" Brian crows. "I was wondering if you were gonna remember the shell!"

Pat's hands are trembling. He puts down the controller and wipes them on his pants. How is Brian so _cool_ about this. "Yeah, it, I—uh, it was just luck," he stammers.

"No such thing as luck, Pat," Brian says, sagely, and puts his controller down on the table. "It's all about how bad you want it. So?" he says, turning his body towards Pat with a distinctively coquettish tilt. "How bad d'you want it?"

Dry. His mouth is dry, and it sticks when he swallows. "I thought we weren't gonna, uh. I guess I thought you didn't want to." Why is he speaking low, like someone could hear them? It's just him and Brian. Alone. For the first time since GDC.

Brian rolls up onto his knees on the couch and sidles a little closer. He's taller, like this, more—more in control of Pat than the previous times they've done anything like this, and it makes Pat's stomach swoop with an emotion he can't begin to comprehend in the pressure of this moment. He doesn't know how he got here. Brian runs his hand through his hair, shakes it out. It looks… it looks so soft, and Pat's hands itch with the desire to touch, but he's frozen to the spot against the arm of the couch.

"Yeah, I guess it's been a hot minute, huh?" Brian murmurs. "Sorry. Didn't mean to leave you hanging."

Pat finds his voice again when Brian's finger catches the lapels of his flannel, then begins a slow journey down the center of his chest. "You don't, uh, you don't have to, you know. Uh," he says, as Brian pulls his belt from the buckle. His face is so... it's so close, Pat can see every fine little hair on his jawline, his hazel eyes obscured by his eyelashes as he looks away, at Pat's body. "You don't, uh, _owe_ me anything."

Brian laughs, a little exhale of breath. His eyes dart up to Pat's, then away again. "Geez, Pat, I know. Let a guy have an excuse, alright?"

"Oh," Pat replies, and it must sound enough like an agreement because Brian smiles as he pulls down Pat's zipper and slides his fingers inside, cupping the bulge of Pat's boxers and dick, which is—which is getting hard from the zap of adrenaline, at the sudden shift in the energy of Pat's night. Brian's got deft fingers, unsurprisingly.

It feels—damnably, it feels _good_ , sending little jolts of pleasure skittering up his spine. He feels carbonated. He doesn't know what to do with his fucking hands. He's never looked at Brian while this was happening before. Brian is—Brian's just, a whole lot of person, compared to Pat's prior experience, broad-shouldered and strong and sure, and Pat bites back a whine as he wraps his hand around Pat's dick and wrests it from its denim prison.

"Oh, hell yeah," Brian breathes. He braces his other hand on the arm of the couch behind Pat and leans over him, penning him in. "You wanna feel good, baby?"

What can Pat do? He squeezes his eyes shut and nods, and Brian responds by pulsing his hand on Pat's dick, coaxing it. What can he—Pat—he's not _ready_ —for this, mechanically or emotionally, but at the same time, he feels like, he got on this escalator because he didn't want to take the stairs, it goes the speed it's gonna go— 

"God," Pat gasps, when Brian's fingers slip into the fly of his boxers and skin touches skin, for the first time; they're not even touching anywhere else, which feels _awful_ , Pat can't—he's not built for this. He jerks his hands into motion, putting them on Brian's shoulders, and Brian rolls into it.

"Yeah?" Brian leads, and Pat nods as he chokes out a _yeah, yeah_. Brian's hand is firm but not unkind. Efficient. Pat wraps his arms around Brian, one over his shoulder and one around his side, linking his hands behind Brian's back, and Brian makes a pleased, sexy noise when Pat pulls him in like that, chest-to-chest.

He can feel Brian's lips on his neck. Brian's teeth, as he smiles. "You want a hickey, beautiful?" he murmurs into Pat's skin. "Wanna know where I've been?"

Pat thinks about waking up with Brian's marks on him, the memory of it obliterated and barren. Thinks about covering it up the next day, pretending to be, just. Anyone else. Brian's coworker. Shoving it down where it doesn't hurt but constantly presses upwards on him, a telltale heart. He shakes his head, choking on it, and Brian pulls away. His stubble scrapes against Pat's.

Brian appraises him quickly, visibly recalibrating his angle of approach. “You good?” he asks, lifting his hand off of Pat.

Pat feels outside his body, watching his own lips pull into a frown. Sees, at the same time, Brian’s face flicker with hesitation; Brian, pulling back. Putting distance between them. Watches himself lunge forward, putting his hands on Brian’s face—oh. He didn’t know he—he didn’t know he wanted to kiss Brian, but there it is. That’s what he does. And there, too, is the way Brian’s whole body goes tense and jerks out of Pat’s grip like a fish in a net.

His ears are ringing when he feels present in his body again, blood thudding though his head. Brian looks like he’s been slapped. His face is red enough for it. They’re not touching at all, which is objectively the worst. 

“Sorry,” Pat gasps, rubbing his mouth. His dick’s still out, fuck. “Sorry, if you—don’t—”

“I don’t,” Brian confirms.

Pat shoves himself back in his pants, zips himself up. "Don't do _what part_ ," he says, failing to mask the bitterness in his tone.

Brian doesn't miss it. "I, uh," he starts, cagey. "Kissing, I guess."

"Obviously," Pat mutters. He tries to straighten himself—hah—running a hand through his hair. Humiliated. The word for how he feels is humiliated. "I don't do… any of it."

Brian snorts in disbelief. "Okay. I've heard that one before, Pat."

"I don't—I didn't want to!" he says, and he must, oh, he must be getting loud, because Brian flinches like he's expecting to get hit. But Pat can't stop. "I didn't want to do that! I just wanna be your fucking friend, okay!"

Brian's quiet for a few long, terrible seconds, his eyes trained on Pat like you'd regard a snake, before he leans back against the arm of the couch and covers his face with his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, please don't hate me," he says, into the space between his palms. He sounds miserable, and Pat's heart seizes in shared agony. "I know you're not into... me, into guys—that you're not—"

"I don't know what I am," Pat replies, quickly. Before Brian can finish that sentence.

Even with Brian's hands hiding his face, Pat can see the way the corners of his mouth pull down as he takes in a shaky breath. "I don't know either," Brian admits. "I just fuck it up. I don't. The way I do it isn't. Right."

"I'm still… I'm still figuring it out. I've been trying," Pat offers. "I—I like you, Brian," he says, and Brian's face flickers with the barest microexpression of hope. "If it—if it was gonna be any guy, fuck, man, it'd be you. It feels like you. I just think I need… you know. Some more, uh. Time, I guess."

Brian nods, quickly. "Me too."

"I'm sorry I—"

"No, fuck, I'm sorry, Pat," Brian cuts him off. "I just, I always, I'm always like this, uh, with guys," he tries, high-pitched, then scrubs the heel of his hand over his eyes. "I should have it figured out by now, don't you think?"

Pat laughs. "Well, if I haven't, by _now_..."

"It's just… it's. If we really… if you think," Brian tries again, and pauses for a long time. "I don't, um, do relationships. With guys. So if you think you _might_ wanna be something, if you, hell, even if you don't, we can't… we can't keep doing this to each other. So if you need to think about it, and I need to think about it, just..."

"So we just think about it," Pat finishes, and Brian nods. "No more, fuckin', gay chickening each other. If we're gonna do it, both of us have to be, you know, eyes wide open."

Brian nods again. "Yeah. Agreed."

When Brian doesn't seem to know how to continue the conversation, Pat slides off the couch and gets to his feet. Pulls his shirt down, where it's rucked up around his waist—where Brian's hands had pushed it up, where they'd laid just underneath like hot brands on his bare skin, burning with purpose. He scratches his hand through his hair. Brian doesn't look up. "I'm gonna—I'm gonna go, okay?"

"You don't have to," Brian murmurs. "We can finish brainstorming. I promise I… I promise I won't. Be weird."

"No, I—I think I should go," Pat answers, and he doesn't miss the way Brian flinches in slow motion, his shoulders coming up to his ears. "If you still need help with it, we can, we can pick it up on Monday, okay?"

"At work."

"Yeah," Pat confirms. "At work."

Brian's face crumples. "Okay," he says. Opens his mouth to say something else, closes it. Digs his fingertips into the soft skin of his underarms. "Okay. Yeah. But I—Pat, I—I really—I still want to be your friend, okay? Even if…" he stutters, then his mouth collapses into a tight pained line.

"Even if," Pat echoes. "Yeah. I like… I like being, you know. That kind of friend with you. I like... all the other shit we do."

Brian looks up at Pat, and he's, ah, _shit_. Is he crying? "I don't know how to be your friend like a normal person, Pat."

And then he, yeah—then Brian's eyes well up, and he's blinking rapidly and looking away, looking down, prodding the corners of his eyes with his thumbs. "Shit, I'm sorry," he's apologizing, between gulps of air like he's trying not to full-on sob, "please don't hate me, Pat."

Pat doesn't even think about it, he just sits down on the narrow sliver of couch in front of Brian and wraps him in his arms, pulls Brian's head in to rest on his shoulder. He feels Brian's hands come up and circle him as well, the shudder that goes through Brian's body as he lets himself have a few pitiful sobs. Brian tamps it down pretty quick, though, stifling his tears with a brutal efficiency Pat wearily recognizes in his own self. "I think we could start by not touching each others dicks," he says, and Brian barks out a wet little sob-laugh into his shoulder.

Brian sniffs as he pulls away, rubbing his eyes and his nose with the heel of his hand. "So that's a _no_ on handjob friends?"

Pat can feel his face smiling, despite himself. Despite how something that feels like a cousin to pain is nesting under his breastbone, making it hard to breathe. Making his muscles tremble with the effort of not giving up entirely. "That's still not a real thing," he says, gently, and Brian smiles too.

"No, I think we independently discovered the concept of friends with benefits," he sniffles.

Pat reaches out—hesitates, but he wants so badly to touch—and plucks a strand of hair from where it's stuck unglamourously to the tracks of Brian's tears. Brian sniffles again, even as he laughs at himself, or Pat, or the whole situation. Pat tucks the strand behind Brian's ear, and then he's got a palmful of Brian's wet face as Brian shoves his head into it like a cat demanding attention.

"I don't want to be your friend with benefits," Pat says, quietly, and Brian nods with a sad smile. "I don't, uh, I don't want to be anyone's hookup. I'm, I'm fucking bad at it, man."

"Me too," Brian murmurs, eyes closed. "Like, obviously."

They sit like that a bit, in silence, until Pat clears his throat. He takes his hand away, slowly, feeling the way Brian's head tracks it for a moment before he gathers himself. Pat rubs his tear-smeared hand on his pants and stands. "Well, uh, I am gonna go, though."

 _Coward_ , he hears in his mind as Brian doesn't meet his eye, just inhales long and slow and lets it out. _You fucking coward, just because he's a—_

But Brian shakes it off, and looks up at Pat. His smile's a little teary still, but determined. That's—that's Brian, for you. That's been Brian the whole time. "Okay, Pat," he says. "I—thanks for coming over. It, uh, I'm glad. I'm glad we could, uh, figure it out."

It doesn't feel very figured out as Pat puts his shoes and coat on, as they hesitate at the door before mutually deciding that hugs are still appropriate, as Pat claps his hand on Brian's back like a—like a _bro_. It feels precarious. Like he's just waiting for the timer to run out on this level, hoping the tower he's built beats the buzzer before toppling. But he can—he can appreciate Brian's dedication to staying upbeat. Matching Brian's energy has always been easy for Pat.

He buoyed by this dedication until about halfway down the stairwell, when it starts to turn cold and leaden and nauseating in his stomach. He takes the last flight almost at a run, bursting through the front door of the building and taking a big gulp of air to steady himself. He feels—he feels fucking dizzy, all of a sudden, his heart is pounding; his hands tremble and sweat as he tucks them under his armpits.

What the fuck. _What the fuck_ kind of person are you, Pat Gill. Who the fuck are you, you limp-willed asshole, you weak piece of shit, you cowardly—you _hypocritical_ , self-conscious, _love is love_ except when it's your best friend in the whole fucking world, the worst kind of—

He pulls his phone out, takes a few tries to unlock it with his fingerprint. He doesn't want to take the subway, he wants to throw himself into a car and get out of here as fast as he can, or he wants to go back inside—

—no, he doesn't want to go back inside; he's, he's decided, alright, and even if it's not the right decision (he knows it's not the right decision) it's the one he made, it's the one Brian agreed with (he didn't even make a decision, he just went along without thinking). It'd be... he'd be ashamed to turn around and go upstairs and be like, _actually, what that dick do_ , except, he knows what that dick do, and, and that makes him feel worse, because now he's compressing the entirety of how he feels about Brian—as a friend, as a peer, as an inspiration, as the wholly wonderful person he is—into just _sex_ , and that, _that_ got him into this mess in the first place. Brian doesn't do relationships with guys, whatever that means. Isn't interested in Pat, not in the way Pat needs to feel—to feel comfortable. The problem here is not the _dick_ , except for the one that's standing outside Brian's apartment right now with his phone in his hand.

He opens the rideshare app and books the car before he can second-guess himself any more. Olan in the grey Honda Civic will he here in four minutes, license plate LYP 4329. Olan looks nice. He probably hasn't jerked off his best friend. Pat's gonna go home and he's gonna—he's gonna have a beer, and he's gonna pet Charlie, and he's gonna go to sleep and he's not going to, uh, he's not going to wake up with his whole body wrapped around another person like he was calling to them in his dreams. He's not gonna—think about Brian's face, and what's missing from his memory.

He wishes he could remember that first night. He wishes he could remember the feel of Brian's mouth, the taste of it; if he remembered, would it be easier? If they'd done this normally, if they'd, if one of them had come to the other at work and shyly asked them out on a date, if they'd gone to dinner and fumbled through a first kiss, sweet and bold and awkward and promisingly awful in the way of all first kisses—if they'd come at this the usual way, would it have made a difference? Would it have made a difference to Pat?

How much time does Pat need? How slowly does he need to go? Imagine, the perfect world where Pat is fine and he feels fine and he feels comfortable with. With himself. How the, how the fuck does Pat get there. Olan in the silver Honda Civic; is Olan gonna take him there? When are you gonna realize, Pat, that the perfect world you're trying to imagine isn't one of many outcomes, it's the one where you've found a way to be comfortable with—with Brian? Where Brian wants what you want? What's it gonna take to get there?

Olan takes a wrong turn and the app recalculates his arrival as seven minutes away. Pat exhales hard, clicking his tongue against his teeth, and shoves his phone into his pocket. Seven minutes is enough, it's, it's enough to be brave.

So he turns—he rallies himself and he turns, hears the door open, thinks _oh, thank god, I don't need to buzz back up_ —and when he looks up the front staircase Brian's, _oh_ , Brian's barrelling down them, one, two, four steps, and it's all Pat can do to hold out his arms as Brian launches himself into them.

The momentum nearly swings Pat off his feet; he holds on, he holds Brian up as they cling to each other, and Pat's both relieved and utterly terrified as Brian pulls his head away just enough so that Pat can look into his red-rimmed eyes, and so Brian can stare at Pat's mouth, and that's all Pat needs; he dips his head and presses their lips together. 

Brian is—

Brian is salt, and wet, and pressure, and teeth, and all the mechanics of kissing that are familiar to Pat, but the swell of affection, of _rightness_ , that rises in him almost makes his knees weak with the force of it. Brian finds his feet and pushes up into Pat, mashing their faces together, inelegant, perfect; his hands are in Pat's jacket lapels, pulling him down, Pat's own hands spread on the wings of Brian's shoulderblades, warmth pouring off him in the cold night air through his thin shirt.

 _He's gonna catch a cold_ , Pat thinks, nonsensically, knowing that's not how it works—but nothing's how he thought it worked, nothing feels knowable, everything feels new again.

Pat can feel himself go dizzy with it, with the rush of adrenaline and the release of it, and of the lack of air as he's kissed, _thoroughly_. Brian breaks before Pat does, though, craning his neck and shouting "hoo!" at the sky before laughing and peppering Pat with a flurry of shorter kisses. It's hard to aim, kissing around the smiles that throw everything off-kilter.

Eventually Pat relents; he grabs Brian and kisses him, deeply, and Brian melts into it, murmuring _mmm_ and letting Pat in, letting him slow it down. Brian's eyes are glassy with joy when Pat finally pulls away, his mouth kiss-red and glistening.

"I don't want to be your friend," Pat says, and Brian's gaze sharpens before relief floods his face.

"I don't wanna be your friend either, Pat," Brian says, all in a rush, and grabs Pat by the ears to pull him down and kiss him again.

They kiss for—Pat loses track of time, honestly, compelled to kiss into the plush welcome of Brian's mouth for, for, for a lot longer than is appropriate in public, honestly, because they only jerk apart when there's a shrill honk from the curb behind him.

"Hey! Patrick?" the man who must be Olan calls out from the open window. "You call a car?"

Pat wipes his mouth as he turns, tamping down the uneasy thrill of shame that's been his constant companion, that fists-up readiness to throw down for everyone other than himself, _so what if I am_ —but Olan's expression is neutral, if a little exasperated Pat hasn't moved yet. He swallows. "Uh, yeah, but, um…"

He looks back at Brian, who looks as lost and as hopeful as Pat feels, like Pat's the lighthouse, like he's the harbour. Like Pat's the long rest at the end of the hard journey. Brian's hand traces down Pat's arm, tangles their fingers together, and even that simple gesture of affection makes his heart swell and his stomach flip over, no longer terrifying but thrilling.

"I, uh, I changed my mind," Pat says. "Sorry, man."

Olan shrugs. "It's your five dollars," he says, and rolls up the window. Brian steps up beside Pat and stands with him, holding his hand as the Civic merges back out into traffic. Pat can only tell out of the corner of his eye, at first, but when he looks back down, it's just… he's never seen Brian look so soft, or so fragile, or so hopeful, and he has to lean in once more to kiss him where he's smiling still, because. Because he can, apparently.

"I'll pay you back the cancellation fee," Brian murmurs when they part again, still forehead-to-forehead.

"We'll call _that_ even, then," Pat says, and Brian giggles and puts his other hand over his face, embarrassed. "A clean slate, okay?"

Brian nods, then leans in to put his face into Pat's shoulder. "Yeah," he says. Pat breathes in the scent of his hair and feels the world exhale with him, as if at the end of a breath held his whole life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> (Remix policy: because this is a gift, please ask before remixing this if it so inspires you!)


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